TRIUMPHANT

The day after the attack on the Manor-house Ursula came down to breakfast as usual.

“Has Monk not been found yet?” she asked.

In the servant’s face she read disaster. She had not missed any of the menials in the hour of danger, presuming them to be hidden away under bedsteads up-stairs, but she had been astonished by the prolonged absence of the dog.

“Yes, Monk had been found,” said the servant, uneasily.

She cast a quick glance at his shifty eyes; then, without further question, she went down to the basement, straight to the mat where the St. Bernard slept. Monk was lying there, in a great huddled mass of brown and white wool, motionless. Before she had come near she knew he was dead. She stood for a moment by his side. Already the limbs were stiffened, the eyes rolled back. She understood that he had been decoyed the day before, and poisoned.

She knelt down and kissed the soft, white head.

“I used to think I was alone,” she said, as she rose.

A maid came towards her.

“Yes, it’s a pity, Mevrouw, is it not?” said the maid. “The old Mevrouw sent me to ask you to go to her in her boudoir.”

Ursula obeyed the summons. As she entered, the Dowager rose to meet her.

“My dear,” said the old lady, trembling very much, “you saved the house last night. I’m afraid I have not always been fair to you. I am old, Ursula; you must forgive an old woman’s prejudices. But you are worthy to be a Van Helmont. Your father-in-law would have appreciated your conduct, my dear.”

Henceforth there was one recent event on which the Dowager’s mind remained perfectly clear. Its fierce terror seemed to have burned it in. Much that had happened since the old Baron’s death was a blank or a muddle, but she was always ready to talk of the attack. And she spoke, therefore, with far greater kindness of the heroine.

“Yes, Ursula is strong,” assented Tante Louisa.

Presently came the tidings of Uncle Mopius’s death, and very soon after that a letter from Harriet. She told Ursula quite frankly that she intended to marry again, as soon as her period of mourning was over, so that there would be no use in first pretending to ignore the fact. “Therefore,” she wrote, “I can only lay claim to the ten thousand[M] a year of my marriage settlements, and, barring a handsome legacy to Josine, you are your uncle’s heiress.”

Ursula dropped the letter on her writing-table and sat thinking, till disturbed by one of Theodore’s frequent business calls. These unavoidable discussions were rarely agreeable.

“First, I can tell you,” he began, “that Juffers has been dismissed.”

“Good,” replied Ursula. “That is only right. It would be foolish to pity him.”

“Secondly, nothing will result, I fear, from the judicial inquiry as regards either the attack on the house or the murder of the dog.”

“That, too, is natural. It was a drunken outburst. Still, somebody must have been the deliberate instigator, or the dog would not have lost his life. I am sorry they can’t find out who did that.”

“I think I know. That new clerk of Noks’s has some grudge against you. Would you like Monk’s murderer punished, Ursula?”

A responsive flame shot into her eyes. They met Theodore’s.

“Oh no,” she said, quickly. “No, no. Leave the man alone, Theodore.”

“Thirdly—the usual worries. The old refrain, ‘Money! money!’ Money wanted for the expenses of Gerard’s reception. Money wanted for the completion of the cottages. Money wanted for a new roof on the Red-dyke Farm. If only we had more money, Ursula, all would be well. As it is—”

She interrupted him. “There is money,” she said. “I am a rich woman, Theodore.”

He smiled an annoyed little smile. “Very funny,” he said, “if only—”

“It is quite true.”

“Oh,” he exclaimed, suddenly understanding. “Has that precious uncle of yours disinherited his wife?”

She colored angrily. “My uncle’s wife is quite able to manage her own affairs,” she said. “Be thankful, you, that henceforth there will be money enough and to spare.”

“How much do you think?” he questioned, with a man’s curiosity to know the figure.

“Some twenty-five to thirty thousand florins a year, Theodore. We shall be able to carry out all your improvements—all Otto’s improvements—all that he used to say he would do if he could—all he could have done if he had married his cousin Helena. And I shall have a chance of trying my charity schemes. We must build an Institute. You must help me, Theodore; there will be heaps to do. We must do it all—all!” She spoke hurriedly, feverishly, as one who crushes down a tumult in her heart.

Theodore stood looking at her, his face puckered and puzzled. “All the fun of the thing is gone,” he said.

“The fun?”

“Yes, the fun. Can’t you understand? I can’t explain. There’s nothing more for to-day. Good-morning.”

“Theodore, I wonder whether thirty thousand florins will suffice to purchase their affection?” She paused. “Their armed neutrality,” she slowly said.

But when left alone her manner changed. She sank down by the window—looking out, looking out. The other day in her supreme appeal she would have abandoned everything to Gerard on his coming home; she had hoped against hope. And what had been his reply? “I am glad you have it, if you like it. I would not have exchanged my struggle for yours.” The words came to her now with superficial meaning; long afterwards she learned to fathom their sorrowful compassion.

“It is God’s doing,” she pleaded, still gazing away upon the landscape, “God’s answer. He confided these hundreds of human beings to my care, and now gives me the means to help them. I dare not abandon them to Gerard—to ruin. Right is an abstract idea. It were wrong to do right.”

The next two days brought Ursula a strange medley of emotions. Gerard had telegraphed immediately after the riot, offering his services; but she begged him not to come over just yet. She dreaded all contact with him. She dreaded his pale face.

He, on his part, gladly held aloof. He was looking for a small house at the Hague, where he expected his mother to come and live with him. The Dowager meanwhile waited patiently. Gerard had only been back a fortnight. To her it seemed one brief yesterday.

Meanwhile the news of Ursula’s accession to wealth filled the province. In one moment the tide turned completely, and the waters of adulation came running from all sides to her feet. Tenants and tradespeople vied with each other in denouncing those who had wronged her. Demands for improvements and repairs poured in hourly; petitioners of all kinds jostled accredited beggars on the Manor-house steps. A rumor had gone forth that the young Baroness really intended to spend her wealth on the property, and when early requests received a hearing, and vague projects got bruited, then enthusiasm knew no bounds. Not more than a week after the attack on the Manor-house Ursula was compelled to exert herself, amid a storm of delation, to prevent both a criminal trial and a lynching of scape-goats by lesser offenders. She would have extended small mercy to the poisoner of her dog had not a story recently reached her ears, after going the round of the neighborhood, to the effect that the notary’s new clerk had been found one evening, not far from his home, lying in the road unconscious, with the coat thrashed off his back.

Ursula, a little dazed amid this sudden revulsion, could even smile at the faces that beamed upon her and serenely decline the honors of a swift counter-demonstration after the manner of Gerard’s reception. She could make every excuse for the fawning of those whose daily bread lies in a master’s hand, but what hurt her to the quick was the sudden melting of the “cousins,” who poured down upon her like icicles suddenly struck by the beams of a belated sun. They could not understand her shivering in the bath of their congratulatory condolence. Ursula pushed the Barons and Baronesses aside.

But the rush of popularity was pleasing, even when correctly estimated; the importance was pleasing; and the possibility of fulfilment—the sudden nearness of life-long ideals—was most pleasing of all. It was all so sudden, so unexpected. Ursula, triumphant, gasped for breath.

One morning, three days after the news reached her, Ursula rang the bell and sent for Tante Louisa’s maid.

“Hephzibah,” she said, “if you are so wretched in this house—and your face proves it—why do you remain?”

Hephzibah began to whimper.

“Klomp won’t have me,” she said; “not unless I bring him enough money to support me. He can’t but just support himself, he says. And Pietje and her child would have to be boarded out.”

“You shall have the money. You can go and tell him so—that is settled.”

But Hephzibah lingered with her apron to her face.

“Forgive me, Mevrouw,” she said; “I never meant no harm to you—but we’re all poor, guilty sinners; and that woman Skiff, the insolent liar, pretending to be wife to honest folks, and then bringing along another husband of her own!”

“You have done me no wrong that I know of,” replied Ursula, calmly; “but I see you are uncomfortable here, and I am willing to help you. Do you hear your foolish voices still?”

Hephzibah shuddered; then she said, enigmatically,

“No, I don’t. Not after—Nevertheless, repentance comes too late. I’m not as bad as other people, but I’m doomed to be unhappy; privileged, I should say.”

“You can go,” said Ursula.

Hephzibah turned by the door.

“Why don’t you marry the Jonker?” she began, suddenly; “I know he loves you. He loved you when he didn’t ought to, and I know he loves you still.”

“Peace, woman!” exclaimed Ursula, rising fiercely. “The Jonker does not love me, nor I him. Go you, and marry your clod.”

A few hours later, as Ursula was sitting alone, thinking—“Why,” asks Freule Louisa, “does Ursula always sit thinking, since her inheritance came? Is she counting up her money? Oh, fie!”—as Ursula sat alone thinking, a stone flew suddenly through her open window, alighting almost at her feet. It had a paper attached to it, and the paper bore these words:

“Beware of Adeline Skiff and her husband. They will work your downfall, if they can.”

She turned the paper over and over. She had no doubt that it came from Hephzibah, whom she—and the world generally—believed to be mildly crazy. She knew that Hephzibah had suspicions regarding many things, but she also had always known these to be harmless. Nobody would attach any importance to Hephzibah’s mutterings.

Ursula smiled sadly.

The paper lay in her lap. And now, unexpectedly, as she gazed down, a great fear fell upon her, she could not have told whence. For the first time she was frightened, afraid of a secret enemy, afraid of discovery, exposure. Who was this man Skiff, the notary’s clerk? What did he know? What could he do? She started up.

To be forced, against her own will, to surrender! To be compelled to do what she would so gladly have done of her own accord, if she had but known how! She set her teeth tight.

An hour later, in the early fall of the slow August evening, Ursula knocked at Skiff’s humble door. Adeline opened it, and immediately tossed her head. “And what may you please to want of me?” she asked.

“I wish to speak to your husband,” replied Ursula.

“Find him, then,” said Adeline, and banged the door.

The insult did Ursula good in this hour of universal adulation. It braced her.

She took a few steps down the lonely lane, reflectively, and then remembered the public-house at the end. She wondered she had not thought of it before. She called to a child at play, gave it a penny, and bade it tell Skiff he was wanted at home immediately.

“Wanted at home, you hear!” she cried after it, as she hastily retreated.

The urchin scampered off and burst into the bar-room. “My lady Baroness wants Mynheer Skiff!” he screamed. “She’s waiting in the middle of the road.”

This bomb-shell, at least, had its desired effect, which a quieter summons from Adeline might easily have missed. Amid general but silent astonishment, and much arching of eyebrows, Skiff started up and stumbled out.

“I wonder he ain’t afraid of another beating,” said one of the topers.

“He gets drunk so as not to be afraid,” replied another.

Ursula’s heart almost failed her when she saw the miserable little creature come lurching down the lane. Oh, the humiliation of condescending to such a low hound as this! At this moment, standing awaiting his approach, she touched the lowest depth in all her long descent of suffering.

She had not made up her mind what to do. She had no plan. Only she was resolved, in accordance with her character, immediately to face uncertainty.

He slouched up and jerked his hat, “And what can I do for you, ma’am?” he said.

She sickened at his manner, feeling as if a snail were creeping across her hand. “Answer a simple question,” she replied. “What do you want of me?”

He swayed to and fro, passing his hand across his eyes. “I’m a poor man,” he said, “a very poor man. A little money never comes amiss.”

“Money?” she echoed. “What should I give you money for? Drink? You will get no black-mail out of me!” Her gorge rose; she felt her pulse grow steady again.

“Now, ma’am, best be civil,” remonstrated Skiff, with tipsy ferocity. “Black-mail isn’t the word, yet there’s stories enough about you to make a little hush-money worth your while. You’d better pay up, my lady; you’d better pay up!”

“Threats! And to me!” exclaimed Ursula, scornfully. But at this moment the cottage door was thrown open and Adeline came running out.

“Don’t let her off too easy!” cried Adeline. “Skiff, you fool, how much did you say? It shall be five thousand florins if it’s a penny, my lady. Or we’ll show you up, Baroness Helmont of the Horst!”

With Gerard’s return Adeline had grown utterly reckless in her fierce hatred of Ursula.

“I am glad you speak so plainly,” said Ursula, coldly. “In this manner you will certainly never get a penny out of me.”

For only answer Adeline poured out a flood of accusation, sprinkled with foul language, from which Ursula gathered for the first time what tales had been circulated against her in the village.

She stood frozen to marble—to marble splashed with mud that no current of years would ever again remove. “That is all?” she said at length, when Adeline paused for breath.

“All!” shrieked the woman. “Skiff, d’ye hear my lady? She don’t think it’s enough! I wonder what your two lovers’ll say, madam, Theodore and Gerard!”

“Hold your tongue,” growled the man, shamefacedly, “or I’ll make you. She has such a temper, my lady, she goes off her head at times. I hope your nobleness’ll forgive her and remember I’m a poor man.”

Ursula had understood, as the torrent swept down upon her, that these people knew nothing—absolutely nothing. They could not hurt her, except by such vague slander as any man may speak. Her secret was still her own, entirely her own, shared by none but a half-crazy creature, whose tardy story, if told, would never carry conviction. And now her set face grew gentle, and the floodgates of her charity opened.

“I will arrange for your emigrating to Canada,” she said, “if you promise to sign the pledge.”

“Oh, I’ll sign it, and willingly,” answered Skiff. “If I may make so bold, how much would you make it, my lady?”

“That will depend on many things,” replied Ursula, and turned to go. “I will have no money wasted.”

Adeline stood in the path, looking as if she would fain have struck her successful rival.

Ursula paused.

“You poor thing,” she said, “I cannot understand what you have against me. I am in no way responsible for your ruin. Believe me, I did all in my power to persuade Baron van Helmont to make you his wife.”

No other words the Baroness could have uttered would have enraged Adeline more than these. The woman stood foaming at the mouth with the hysterical passion of her class.

“You! You!” she sobbed out. “He asked me to marry him, do you hear, like the true-hearted gentleman he was! And I threw him over for Skiff! What I said later was a lie, as you know; but I’d have kept up the game if the child hadn’t died, as it did last year, more’s the pity! And I could have been Baroness van Helmont, if I’d chosen. So there! You can take my leavings, madame.”

Ursula came a step closer; her face seemed to alter suddenly. “Answer before God,” she said; “did Gerard van Helmont offer you marriage before your child was born?”

“Yes, I tell you—yes!” laughed back Adeline, impudently. “There; you didn’t expect that, did you? There’s pleasant news for my lady so proud! Take Miss Adeline’s leavings, do!”

The man, who had stood watching them, stumbled forward.

“Go in, d’ye hear?” he said, roughly, “or I’ll give you another taste of yesterday’s dinner.” He turned to Ursula with a leer he intended for a smile. “You must forgive her, Mevrouw,” he said, bowing. “She’s a bit fantastical, as I said, but I know how to manage her. I hope that Mevrouw will kindly remember the arrangement she has just made with myself.”